


The Ambiguity of Aggression

by notearchiver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:44:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notearchiver/pseuds/notearchiver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The truth is always ambiguous, and Snape was nothing if not that. Hermione and Harry are reminded of this in a painful manner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ambiguity of Aggression

**Author's Note:**

> **Title** : The Ambiguity of Aggression  
>  **Author** : notearchiver  
>  **Word Count** : 2,953 words  
>  **Rating** : PG-13  
>  **Warning(s)** : none  
>  **Notes** : Recognizable text in one sequence is taken from _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_.

* * *

\-----  
The truth is often a terrible weapon of aggression. It is possible to lie, and even to murder, with the truth.  
–Alfred Adler  
\-----

"Tell me again why I'm here?"

 

"Mr Potter," the Headmistress said, striding down the staircase as it simultaneously descended, "the fact is, I have no idea why _you_ are here. I will restate this quite simply." Her steps quickened as she reached level ground, and Harry nearly fell trying to match her pace when exiting the stairs. "Before his demise Professor Snape bespelled a chest so that only you can open it. You are here to collect it. Merlin knows why the man chose you, but that is the explanation."

Harry Potter tugged down the sleeves of his jumper and shivered as they entered the dungeons proper. "Then why couldn't you just give me the chest or whatever in your office, Professor?" he asked, adding the title after a pause.

It had been two years since the end of the War, and it was only now that Hogwarts was reopening. The repairs had been extensive, as much of the castle's power had been directed to sustaining the protections. For some time afterwards none of the magical aspects of Hogwarts functioned. Hermione, who was part of the restoration team, had babbled something about Hogwarts being sentient, and therefore needing to restore Her magic in order to operate. Harry still didn't quite get it.

McGonagall stopped before a blank section of wall and he almost ran into her. "Because Professor Verroot, the new Potions professor, will be moving in two days from now, and I'm sure he would appreciate his quarters to be near his office and classroom."

"Huh?" Harry said, as McGonagall moved her wand in a rather fancy pattern and the wall dissolved to reveal a door.

The Headmistress sighed, and waved him inside. "Severus, being who he was, spelled the chest not only so that only you could open it, but so that only you could move it."

"Oh."

Harry looked around, interested in what the Snape's quarters had looked like, but the walls and floors were bare except for an object in the right corner of the room. It didn't look much like a chest—more like a lopsided box, in fact—but Harry figured it was what McGonagall had summoned him to retrieve.

At McGonagall's glare, Harry approached it gingerly, stopping uncertainly a few feet away.

"Mr Potter, if you will," the Headmistress said impatiently. "There are no untoward spells on the chest, and if Professor Snape had wished to spend his afterlife tormenting you, he would have appeared already."

Suitably cowed, Harry reached down and picked up the box. For its substantial size, it was surprisingly light.

"Right, thanks, Professor." He straightened, turning to face the aging Headmistress. "Er, I'll just be going then…" He trailed off as the woman's face didn't change.

"I have several more duties to fulfill here, and I simply don't have the time to escort you everywhere, Mr Potter, as the staff begin to return tonight. I'm sure you can see yourself out. Do try not to do too much damage." Her face had softened by the end.

"Will do. I'll write to you about what's in the chest then?"

"Do so at your discretion, Mr Potter. I am no longer your professor, nor are you a child any longer. But remember: Severus bespelled the chest so only you could touch it for a reason. As you did not respect his wishes while he lived, try to do so now."

Harry nodded, and took the chance to escape. He had never liked the dungeons as a student, and two years out of Hogwarts—well, three, really—didn't change that.

Walking to the gates, Harry glanced at the clearing where Dumbledore's tomb rested. At its foot was a black marker. Though he couldn't read the inscription on it from this far away, he knew what it said. He and Hermione had argued over it quite vehemently. In the end, it was Ron who decided what it should say. And so Snape's final resting place was marked only with his name, birth, and death dates. Let people think of him what they would.

With one last nod to the castle he turned, apparating to Grimmauld Place, box clutched firmly in his arms.

\-----

It wasn't until three days later that Harry had a chance to open the chest. Renovations on Grimmauld Place were progressing slowly as traces of dark magic were proving more stubborn to remove than he had originally thought they would be. Still, he only had two rooms to go before he could start painting and the like. Despite Ron's grumblings, his friend was quite good at household spells, no doubt a legacy of having Mrs. Weasley as a mother.

So it was a Monday evening when he pulled the chest from under his bed and placed it on the kitchen table. Harry glared at the innocuous latch, hating that Snape had put him in this position, but tentatively tapped it with his wand. When nothing happened, he reached out and flicked it open, expecting the worst. But there was nothing. No sparks, no screaming, no burns or boils.

"Well, nothing to lose, right? The bastard's dead, anyways," Harry muttered, opening the lid.

Nestled in swathes of cloth was a single vial, and Harry snorted. Trust Snape to leave him a potion. Probably some sort of poison the man had never had the chance to use on him during his lifetime. But when he picked up the vial, he was confronted not with liquid, but a murky, cloud-like substance, and Harry's stomach clenched.

Memories. Shit. Shit. Shit.

He wasn't going to deal with this. He had enough of the man in when he lived, he didn't need to be haunted now, not when life was finally improving and Voldemort was dead. No way. No way in hell.

Hastily shoving the vial back into the chest, he slammed the lid shut and shoved it in a kitchen cupboard behind a stack of fan mail he had been putting off looking at.

Harry grasped his wand as if it could calm him and took several deep breaths. Right. He could do this. He needed to talk to Hermione.

Nearly running to the fireplace, he threw in a handful of floo powder and stuck his head in the fire. "Hermione's flat!" he called, struggling to keep calm as his head swirled.

When he opened his eyes, Hermione was kneeling in front of him, and bowl of kneazle food in her hand. It must be closer to supper time than he had thought if she was feeding Crookshanks.

"Look, can you come over?" Harry asked in a rush.

Hermione set the bowl down on the floor and absentmindedly rubbed Crookshanks, who had wandered over. "Why?"

"Snape's back," he said, and Hermione's eyes widened.

"He's dead, Harry."

Harry shook his head. "Oh shit. That didn't come out right. I mean, I mean…I…just can you floo over?"

Hermione appeared skeptical, but nodded anyway. "Sure."

"Thanks." He smiled earnestly, then backed away and began pacing. Seconds later, there was the whoosh of the floo and Hermione appeared, dusting off her robes.

"Okay, so what is it?" she asked. "You look like you could use some tea. Let's go to the kitchen and we'll talk about it there."

Harry nodded numbly and dutifully followed her. Hermione hadn't changed one bit in the years after the War. Still obsessed with books and knowledge, she had spent the majority of the last few years helping with the reconstruction of Hogwarts and lobbying the Ministry of Magic to revise house elf laws. Ron had entered Auror training, but promptly quit when he realised it was a lot more theory than he thought it would be. Instead, he had attended the Chudley Cannons tryouts and was currently their reserve keeper. Harry had just sat back and let his friends go about their lives. He was tired and the thought of being an Auror held no allure for him anymore. He would take a job eventually, but right now all he wanted to do was restore Grimmauld Place and hide from the newspapers. Even two years after he had defeated Voldemort the reporters were still hounding him every time he left the house.

A teacup was plunked in front of him, and Harry took a large swallow of the scalding liquid just to have something to do.

"So, tell me why you're thinking of Professor Snape now," Hermione said, settling into the chair across from him.

"Well," Harry swirled his tea, "McGonagall called me to Hogwarts three days ago. Turns out Snape left something for me that only I could pick up and she needed it out of there. Anyways," he took another gulp of tea, "I finally got around to looking at it today; seems the old git left me a memory."

Hermione had been lifting her cup to her mouth but stopped halfway. Setting it down, she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and pursed her lips. "I don't see what the problem is, Harry. Either look at it or don't. You don't need me to decide what you should do."

"I just don't know what to do," Harry huffed, slumping back in his chair. "I mean, I thought I was done with him, and now he shows up like a Boggart out of nowhere. Poof!" He flapped his hands as if to demonstrate.

"I thought you were over this irrational thing you had against the professor."

"I was! I mean, I am!" Harry protested. "I just need some advice here."

Finishing her tea, Hermione smoothed her robes and stood. "You want my advice, Harry, here it is: figure it out for yourself; you never listened to me anyways in regards to Professor Snape." Harry opened his mouth, but she continued before he could interrupt. "And no, I will not look at the memory with you. He gave it to you for a reason. He spelled it so only you could get it for a reason. At least respect the man that much. If you view it and think I should see it, well, that's your decision. Don't say you don't have a pensieve, because I know you're hiding one upstairs. Now, do you need anything else? If not, I'd best be going. Crookshanks has probably made a mess of my flat by now."

Harry shook his head mutely, not moving as she left the room and accessed the floo network. He stared at the cupboard, shook his head, and levitated the teacups to the sink. Later, he promised himself. Later he would look at the memory.

\-----

Hermione collapsed into the nearest chair as soon as she stumbled out of the floo. So, Harry had received a chest as well. After what hers had contained, well, she wouldn't be going into any more pensieves for quite some time. The memory still haunted her…she had only been a first year. If she had chosen the wrong vial—

_Snape stood before a cauldron, his greasy hair swaying in time to the rhythmic strokes of his stirring. Beside him on the workbench was a scrap of parchment. At the top of the parchment a few lines could be made out, though copious scratches and blotches of ink indicated that it wasn't the final draft. Memory Hermione would remember the riddle even if it hadn't been written down._

Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,  
Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,  
One among us seven will let you move ahead,  
Another will transport the drinker back instead,  
Two among our number hold only nettle wine,  
Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line.  
Choose, unless you wish to stay here for evermore,  
To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:  
First, however slyly the poison tries to hide  
You will always find some on nettle wine's left side;  
Second, different are those who stand at either end,  
But if you would move onwards neither is your friend;  
Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,  
Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;  
Fourth, the second left and the second on the right  
Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.

_Hermione moved to look in the cauldrons. There were seven of them were lined up in a row, and she instantly recognized two of them: the potions that sent her back and Harry forward. As a first year she hadn't recognized what the other vials contained, but now, standing in the laboratory and smelling the mixtures, she could identify them easily. Poisons, all of them. If she wasn't as smart as she was, if her logic had been wrong, if she had been incapacitated by fear—_

she would be dead. And not only her, but Harry as well.

\-----

Harry sprawled face down on the bed, not able to sleep. His mind kept wandering back to the chest shoved in the back of the cupboard. So innocent, so innocuous—until opened. A glass vial, undoubtedly spelled unbreakable, packed in cloth and placed in a wooden box. So unassuming, so small, so…

He rolled out of bed, knocking the pillow to the floor in the process, and rummaged for a pair of socks to pull on, grabbing a jumper as well on his way out. Entering the kitchen, he flung open the cupboard and violently pulled out the chest, then marched back to his bedroom, pulled the pensieve out from under the desk, and placed the two items on the floor next to each other. That done, he took out the vial and poured the memory into the bowl. Watching the wisps swirl, Harry thought they looked quite a bit more sinister let loose from the vial than when caged.

"Just do it," Harry seethed to himself. "Don't be a fucking coward like Snape was." Even knowing that the man had spied for the Order to the end, Harry still thought the man a coward. Only a coward wouldn't tell his allies what he was doing, only…

Harry stuck his head in the pensieve.

_It was a memory, alright, he realised instantly. But it was different than other ones, a bit hazier, indefinite, though not in the way Slughorn's tampered one had been. As the image cleared, Harry's fists clenched. A memory of a memory._

_Sirius fell through the veil; laughter, laughter, laughter._

_But how did Snape have this memory? He never saw it during Occlumency lessons, those were before the Ministry debacle._

_Sirius fell; laughter, laughter, laughter._

_Wait! This wasn't his memory! It was the wrong angle. Where was Bellatrix? Where was the laughter coming from?_

_Falling; laughter, laughter; a surge of joy, a surge of ecstasy._

_It was Bellatrix's memory._

_Harry fought to leave the pensieve, but he was trapped until the memory ended. As the veil faded to black, a sibilant voice sounded in the darkness._

_"I believe we are even, Potter."_

Finding himself sitting on the floor in Grimmauld Place, Harry upended the pensieve, letting the poisoned memory escape. Where it went he did not care. All that laughter…He didn't sleep that night. He barely slept the next. Or the next. Or the next…

\-----

Hermione sat across from him at the table. She looked more tired than usual, Harry thought. Of course, he could be hallucinating. His eyelids refused to stay open for regular intervals.

"You look worse than 'Mione, mate."

Harry started, sloshing his butterbeer. He had forgotten Ron was there. "Yeah…um…haven't been sleeping well," he mumbled.

"Must be the weather," Ron replied. "Hermione hasn't been sleeping well either."

Harry raised an eyebrow and Ron blushed.

"Well…er…I" he stumbled.

"I'll just forget you ever said anything."

"Right then." Ron searched for a topic. "The Chudley Cannons aren't doing that badly this year."

"Uh, Ron, I'm a bit tired right now. Why don't we get together tomorrow or something. I think I need some rest," Harry said.

Ron looked puzzled, but shrugged. "Sure, you look like you could do with a lie in. I'll floo you tomorrow then."

"Sounds good," Harry said.

Ron turned to Hermione. "Coming?"

"In a minute, Ron. I want to ask Harry a question," she replied.

When Ron had left, Hermione turned to Harry. "I take it the memory wasn't exactly wonderful," she said.

"You got one too." It was not a question.

"Mmhmm. I'll tell you later," she promised. "Ron will worry if I stay long enough to tell you."

"Got it. See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Hermione said, smiling weakly.

Hermione left, and Harry slumped into a chair. He'd take Dreamless Sleep tonight, he vowed. Just one night.

\-----

Minerva sighed, surveying the three chests that sat on her desk. One of them was for her, the other two, unlike Harry's, could be moved by someone who it wasn't intended for. Good thing, too, as those two people were dead.

Raising her wand, she closed her eyes. The temptation was great, but they weren't hers. With a flick of her wand, Minerva banished the chests marked Lupin and Nymphadora, then turned her gaze on the one with her name on it. Did she want to open it? Miss Granger had visited yesterday and had looked terrible. No doubt Mr Potter looked just as bad.

Some things just shouldn't be known, and Severus had known quite a few of those.

With a regretful twist of her lips, she banished the final chest. Better not to know.

Behind her, the portrait of Severus Snape smirked.

\-----

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Ambiguity of Aggression](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10742031) by [notearchiver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notearchiver/pseuds/notearchiver), [sisi_rambles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sisi_rambles/pseuds/sisi_rambles)




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